Scarred Legacy
by GronHatchat
Summary: This is a sequel that I am writing to the Joel Schumacher film, Batman Forever. This story works with Batman Forever canon. I am writing it based around the character of Dr. Meridian, and the terrible tragedy that took her near the end of Batman Forever and warped her into a murderous monster. A monster who has taken on the form of Two Face.
1. Chapter 1

_"Your secret is safe. He is definitely a wacko."_

_ She did not see him running. With all intense haste, his speed was filled with purpose. A trot through the November mud with intent, with force behind every step. A man with a mission. To maim. To destroy. _

_ "Wacko? Is that a technical term?" _

_ He did not see it. How blind could he be, the Batman? It was sickening to behold, his vulnerability… his discovered humanity… it was sickening to know that such a feeble thing was present in the man's life…_

_ "Listen...I won't need this anymore. Thank you for giving me a new dream." _

_ The old man stood by the car, softly smiling, observing as a weak bystander. Pennyworth. Or did he too have another name…. another meaning….? _

_ "Don't work too late…." _

_ A kiss, and then she was walking away from him, towards the old man who knew everything… he would put her in the car, and whisk her away to safety. And this could not be allowed. The man who ran with purpose, with intent in every crazed step, crashed past Wayne…past the Batman…. forcing him to the side. Wayne stumbled about, taking by surprise at the man's swiftness. The old man saw him coming first, and opened his mouth to call out a warning to the woman. Dr. Meridian… karma. Absolute karma. _

_ She did not know he was there until it was far beyond too late. Her hair was long enough, and it made for a suitable hold upon which he could turn her. She cried out as he jerked her around, but the sound only meant pleasure for him. Courtesy of them both, the dark man thought, as he unpackaged the large beaker from his trench coat. The stopper flew through the air as the messenger, this heathen monstrosity glorified through sin, forced the woman against Wayne's car and promptly poured the contents of the beaker upon her face…_

_ Bruce Wayne, screaming as he ran forward, his own intent as powerful as that of the messenger, saw the label on the side of the beaker. Saw the horror of the amber colored liquid within. It made his heart turn to ice. _

_**ACE- HNO3**_

3 months later…

The couple had been married for twenty-three years. Twenty-three years of what they had seen as love, more than two decades of passion and play. Not that there had never been bad moments. There had been a lot, as every health relationship knows. But they never stopped loving each other. On their wedding day, Arthur Donovan had pledged his vow to Lucil that he would die for her, if ever given the chance. He had pledged his life to her, and the two had become one, as Mark 10:8 tells us.

Arthur was a visionary. Ambitious to the last, he aspired to build Gotham's first reliable, commercialized hover car. A mechanic by nature, Arthur had spent years glossing over encyclopedias of car-craft, engine maintenance, aerodynamics and physics theories of suspendability. And all the while, Lucil, a police instructor and vetern of the GCPD, would stand in the corner of his workshop, a small but sad smile on her face. She knew how obsessed her husband was in this project, and she knew that, realistically, he would never succeed. After all, technology just hadn't reached that point yet, but Arthur was a man of faith. He believed God would allow him to fulfil his dream before the end of his life, and so Lucil had stood by his side, always smiling that sad smile but never expressing her own lack of faith in him.

Arthur was employed by the Wayne Enterprises research board, space division. He had a Bachelors in Science and Aviation, and often his employees called him the "Wingnut," because they too doubted him. But he never gave up. He never threw in the towel. He had support from Lucil, from Bruce Wayne himself and from the late Fred Stickley. Wayne had even given him a small fortune in grant funding to extend his research. That money had made Arthur the scourge of the eyes of his co-workers, who accused him of brownnosing the Chairman.

"Innocence in that the man sees me' dream!" had come his reply. "I gave this project my all! I got rewarded for me' work."

Rewarded with cash abundant, close to a million in funds to research small-time contributors from scrap deposits. Superficial, fresh brands of flight had its budget limitations. Arthur was going to change the world slowly.

He would have changed the world slowly.

Arthur and Lucil were having issues now.

'Shhh," she whispered to the whimpering man, brushing his cheek gently with her hand. "It'll all be over before you know it."

"No, it won't," said the Other. "It has to be drug out slowly. Very slowly, even."

"What purpose would it serve?" the woman demanded, her fist clenched. "We have things to do and rodents on our tail. I want to be out of here when he comes calling…"

"But this man may have more secrets to spill…more combinations to offer…" the Other protested firmly. "No, we stay _here_ and go about things slowly until he's given us _everything_."

"I-I-I-I'll g-give it…all…t-take it…" Arthur was terrified more than he had ever been in his life. It was utter horror, and utter hell. "W-willingly…"

"Aw, really?" the woman cooed, pinching his cheek lightly, looking ecstatic. "Oh, you _are_ a doll, dear… I see why you married him," she added, looking right at Lucil. She winked. "I'd sure like to be the one who had kept him for so long. It would have been amazing. It was, wasn't it?"

"Hurry up!" the Other snapped.

"Fine," the woman hissed, annoyed with her partner's persistence.

The scene was gruesome. Arthur's penthouse was a fine place, indeed, very fine. Reinforced glass at every angle, transparent walls with the most wonderful view of Gotham's entertainment district, the abundance of neon casinos ravishing to the eye. Color porn. The Donovans had decorated the floor with an Indian carpet, scarlet with entwining golden flower patterns. The rooms smelled strongly of lavender. One entire wall was dedicated to a massive fish tank, in which twenty-one different species of fish were swimming about contentedly, unaware as to the scene occurring outside of their dollhouse world. Two people, a man and a woman, both dressed in black suits of fine quality, lay upon the floor near the door, a gunshot wound in each of their foreheads. They had failed in their jobs as security guards. When the woman had sent her first threats (a politely written note calmly requesting the entirety of the Donovon fortune and a dead kitten to emphasized the point), Arthur and Lucil had been quick to hire two well-known ex-soldiers, Hannah Mason and Julin Gartell, to watch over their homes while the police investigated the typed out note and the carcass of the poor cat. Arthur had only met them a week ago, paying them three times what average police made in a month. It had been adequate.

Their deaths had stricken Arthur was an interior death, and it was agony. Mason's eyes stared out at him, in accusation. _You did this to me,_ they screamed, _you did this._

Lucil had put up a fight. She always kept guns in the strangest of places: behind the television set, under the couch cushions, strapped to her underwear, and even inside the shades of lamps. The woman and the Other had come with a handful of hooded men, seven in all. Lucil had brought down three of them before the woman had shot her in the leg, incapacitating her. The five surviving thugs from the fight had drug the three casualties somewhere out of sight, leaving only the woman and the Other to stand over the Donovans, the silver pistol aimed between Arthur's eyes. Lucil had been gagged, her hands and legs bound with chains…. She could only watched in horror, tears flooding from her old eyes, as the woman bent down before Arthur and traced her black gloves fingers across his face.

"The fortune?" she whispered.

"I-i-in the s-safe….bank account information…" Arthur tried to be brave, tried to sound like a tough warrior. But he found it impossible. He was a frail old man, and this woman was young. Young and very fit indeed.

"Combination?"

"I'll d-do it…"

"No, you won't," she whispered even more intently, and now her gun was kissing him on the lips. He had wet himself, literally. He could feel the warm trickle of water between his legs. The woman either did not notice or did not care, for she did not ridicule him. Lucil, however, was crying for her husband. "Com-" She prodded him hard in the mouth with the barrel, "-bi-" placed her index finger over his eye, "-nation." Wiggled the finger threateningly. Would she destroy his eye…to match hers?

'2 -18- 21 -3- 5…"

"Is that a stutter or is that the actual combination?" the Other snapped.

"2- 18 -21- 3- 5," Arthur stressed more intently, wanting her to take the information and leave them.

The woman kissed him on the cheek and giggled. "Safe?" she whispered, her head jerking to and fro now.

Arthur looked towards a large painted portrait of himself and Lucil from their wedding day. They had been married at the foot of Gotham's Wonder Tower. That had seemed so long ago, in another era… he wanted those moments to be brought back, wanted to trap himself in that existence and stay there forever….

The woman stood up and walked right over to the painting. Without hesitation, she grabbed both ends of the tall piece and forcibly yanked it from the wall. With brutal force she brought the thing down upon her knees, bending it and breaking it in two. Arthur moaned, his heart aching now. He desperately looked at Lucil. Their eyes locked and he whispered an unspoken promise: _You will make it through this. I swear. _

A minute later, the woman had broken into the safe and now had a fat manila envelope in her hand, a smile of contentedness upon her shattered face.

"Vera! Yvonne!"

She called out towards the hall, tapping the pistol in her hand impatiently against her thigh. There came the scampering of quick strides. Two women entered the room at quick pace. Both were tall and both looked full of temperament, but they could not have been more different. One wore an intensely bright, almost white fur coat, her hair a bright gold, her skin cherry and full of color. The other wore a long black trench coat, her hair was cropped and her skin was so pale, matched against the black lipstick and heavy black eyeliner she wore. One looked like an angel, the other a vampire. However, both were carrying pistols of their own, and the expressions on their faces…so dead…so empty….

They were shells. Shells set apart from old lives, broken upon this shore of insanity known as Gotham. Husks.

"Vera," the woman said calmly. "Take this." She handed the envelope to the angel, who took it so slowly and so emotionlessly. Her eyes were so _dead_. "Yvonne… take this." She handed the vampire her pistol. The woman fell to her knees before the two Donovans and looked from one to the other in a very piteous way. "Shame it turned out like this. Why? Why did you do it? Why did you have to exist? This is a crime….a crime…a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime…"

She chanted and chanted, her head jerking as she did. Arthur was shaking madly. He wanted to hold Lucil, to kiss Lucil, to get Lucil a thousand miles away from Gotham stinking City. When they made it through this….they _would_ make it through this…. Oh how he would _leave_ Gotham forever… at least he did not keep his research notes into aerodynamics in that safe. They were hidden away even more intently than his bank information… and this lunatic did not seem to be interested in them anyway.

"Crime! CRIME!" The woman grabbed at her head and squeezed hard, sobbing uncontrollably. _Why why why why why why why why why why why why why why!?_

"Because you must answer the call!" the Other screamed.

"I-DON'T-WANT-TO!"

"Too bad!" the Other retorted. "Do it, do it, do it now! Do it now! Do it!"

The woman punched at the floor, viciously snarling like a wild animal.

_My God…I'll be killed…._ Arthur was screaming inside of his own head. _She'll kill us both! She really IS a lunatic!_

"Okay, okay, okay, okay…" The woman got herself under control, breathing deeply. The two zombified women who stood behind her only stared blankly. Gulping loudly, the woman reached into a pocket that was sown into the side of the half white, half black dress she wore. She pulled out a coin. It was a regular old silver dollar, a newer one by its look. Liberty on one side, the eagle on the other. Freedom….or the predator. Black and white. Big and small. Opposites were poetry, and all poetry wreaked of death, in some form or another.

"The itsy bitsy spider crawled down the water spout," the woman sang to herself softly as she twirled the coin in hand. "Down came the rain…and he died. He died a horrible death with no family or friends to give him a proper burial… he died, alone, crushed beneath gallons of water, struggling to breath…it must have been agonous…"

The coin flipped through the air. It seemed to fly almost in slow motion. Certainly the world had paused to watch….certainly…

_Jesus loves me, this I know…for the Bible tells me so…little ones to Him belong…they are weak…but He…is strong…little ones…little ones burn…..people are little…so they burn too….more to give to Him…more to give to Heaven….or Hell….Hell….Hell…Hell…Hell…_

The coin had already landed in her open palm, but she paid no notice. Had not noticed.

_Burn them all, can't we burn them all… I hate….fuck… why the hell….damn…cuss words aren't nice… and he said he would wait….hate….Oh, Bruce…. Seventeen years down the drain, itsy spider fell and died…_

"Boss?" The dead, dry whisper came from the angel. The woman and the Other heard it, for they were one. One. They were One, with a capital O. She looked down at her palm. Heads. Smiled sadly to herself.

"You were heads," she whispered to Arthur. Arthur's heart froze. What did…heads…mean?

The vampire, Yvonne, handed the woman her pistol back. Handed the monster her pike.

"You were heads," she whispered again, and she pulled his head forward, kissing him softly upon the lips. When she pulled away, she sighed. "Heads up."

And then she shot him. Point-blank murder and Arthur Donovan fell backwards, so dead and so gone from his body, the bullet hole in his forehead smoking fiercely. Lucil was screaming through her gag, tormented into her own madness by the horrid sight. Even through her screams, the murderess was still loud enough to be heard.

"You were tails…"

She reached out a hand, and Vera placed something in it. A vial, filled with an amber liquid. _**ACE- HN03**_. Yvonne and Vera both then proceeded to crouch down on either side of Mrs. Donovan and they held her in place, removing the gag from her mouth. Her screams filled the air with the most horrible intensity, but this did not halt the murderess in her movements. When she stood above Lucil, she did so while unstoppering the acid within. "You were tails… You get to live…"

And indeed, Lucil Donovan's life was spared. But not half of her face. No. Never half of her face.

The woman who stood over her, pouring the acid down to destroy half of what Lucil Donovan had always treasured, her face, mirrored the results in turn. Half of _her_ face was gone. Muscles tendons and bone protruded outward. She was ghastly to behold, eye bulging, half of the hair on the top of her head burnt away. A true monster. A shell. A shell washed upon the insane shore of Gotham freaking City. A shell that was all that was left of Dr. Chase Meridian…


	2. Chapter 2

"Good afternoon, Bruce," Terrance Fisherman greeted as the burly man waltzed into the room, carrying in his fat fist a bottle of _Murciélago Eastfront_ wine, the black liquid swirling about with a loud swishing noise. Bruce Wayne was standing before the counsellor's tall window, staring out about the great city of Gotham as rain splashed heavily against the glass. A powerful storm was raging today, lightning crackling loudly. He turned and nodded softly at the boisterous man, only the most distant, untrue smile upon his lips.

"Terrance," came his soft reply. "Forgive me, please. I know this isn't the kind of weather you'd want to drive all the way across Gotham in, but…"

"Hey, if I couldn't answer the call when it's made, I'd be a damn worthless counsellor," was Fisherman's reply. He plumped down hard upon his squashy leather brown couch and motioned for Bruce to do the same opposite him. "So… is it the dreams again, my friend?"

"Yes," Bruce replied quietly, his eyes so distant as he took a seat and stared a hole into the wide coffee table before him. "They've been happening at least ten times a day now, whether or not I'm awake or asleep… I thought they had ended… I thought…"

"You thought she had finally helped you get out of it," Fisherman nodded. "Often times, the mind laments what must be lamented, for sanity's sake. Bruce, never let anyone tell you that pain is conquerable. Pain is natural part of life, and it must reap where it will reap. Do you understand? You come to me because you think I have solutions. You come to me because you think that I am the answer to your pain. No, Bruce, I'm not. I can only cast an illusion over the truth, and hinder you from assimilating it into something useful."

"Maybe I don't want to turn my pain into something useful," Bruce insisted, his eyes desperate. Fisherman sighed. Bruce was a dear friend, but he could also be quite thick. The man had been tormented for months now with these day and nightmares. Chase Meridian had helped him escape the torments…and then she in turn had become the torment.

He remembered when Bruce had first come to him, three months before, pleading for a mental escape, pleading for answers. In truth, Fisherman had none to give. The murders, the bombings, the robberies… they were continually growing, week by week. CONTRAST! read the papers in the street. The graffiti on the walls, even at times the bodies would be arranged to spell out the letters: CONTRAST! Always with two exclamation marks. Messages from her. Messages from Dr. Meridian…no…CONTRAST…to the world. It was what the news media had christened her. Contrast, or II Face, or even Harvey's Legacy… and Bruce had been close to her. He had been with her. The thought of his anguish hurt Fisherman. He could not even imagine.

And Bruce blamed himself. Blamed himself beyond anything he had ever blamed himself for. During the first meeting, Bruce's hands had never stopped shaking. He had been there with her, when it happened… had been the one who had rushed her to Gotham General… had been the one to sit there, hour by hour throughout the stabilization process, and her screams, as he had put it, had been beyond nightmare… and it had been Bruce who had been standing in the hall of Gotham General when the other screams had begun.

The screams of doctors and nurses. Screams of those who had been about to operate the poor woman. One of them had been found with seven syringes stuck in her throat, another stabbed with a hacking saw, yet another still gutted with a scalpel… And Meridian had burst out of the room, electric saw in hand, waving the thing about madly as she bolted down the hallway. Bruce had gone after her, along with several doctors and nurses…but she had already taken off into the night. It had been speculated that she had leapt into the Queens River.

Only a week later had the murders begun, with Harvey Dent's old gang, The Pharisees, claiming responsibility for three different assaults on Wayne Observatory, Hera's Garden of Love strip club and the Jack White Casino. And talk of Dr. Meridian had surfaced, leading the Pharisees into their terrorism, scarred and severely mutilated: Harvey Dent's soul within a new body, it almost seemed.

Bruce was not a suicidal man. Fisherman had worked with him during his youth, talking him through the various exercises of accepting pain. It had begun with his parents' murder. Now, it was murder in a different way. A murder of the soul, a murder of the mind.

"Pain is a weapon in which we can use to destroy the world, Bruce. But sometimes, things have to be destroyed."

"What are you suggesting exactly?"

"I'm suggesting, Bruce, that you take your pain and thrive on it. Playact. Really throw your mentality into the situation. I would not recommend this if I didn't think you could handle it and come out smelling like spring roses. You're the richest man in Eastern America, Bruce. You have limitless resources. Fund mercenaries, thugs, anyone you know who could give you information on the Pharisees and Dr. Meridian."

"You're suggesting I ally myself with crooks in order to find her!?" Bruce spat. Fisherman nodded defiantly.

"Bruce, in this town, you play by its rules. Its rule require a defiance against normality. _Social_ normality, Bruce. There are figures in the underworld of Gotham capable of securing you information on where and how to find her and the Pharisees. Then…then it's a matter for the police to handle, after you get a fixed location. Them…and Batman, of course."

Bruce was glaring at Fisherman. Never had he dreamed the man would suggest that he ally himself with the vampires of Gotham, the nightly scum of the city who thrived on theft, murder and every other heinous crime imaginable. Fisherman must be insane…

"I know what you must think, Bruce. After all, these people have taken so much from you…they've taken so much from Gotham… but these are also the people who can bring your pain to an end, if you so desire it. You must use your pain and turn it into anger, Bruce, and then with your anger comes dedication, and with dedication comes results. Your money takes care of the rest. Drop the playboy face for one day of your life and be a child of Gotham. Be a hero to your own selfish cause, Bruce! Hell, I'd go as far as to say be a Batman. He breaks the law, he swings from rooftop to rooftop saving the city again and again, but we know in the end, he has the right idea. Look to him for inspiration if you doubt my words, Bruce, but action can be done on your part. In fact, it has to be."

Fisherman promptly tossed the bottle of wine into Bruce's lap, who looked stunned by the man's words, and jumped jerkily when the bottle landed.

"Drink that tonight. It's a special medicinal. Had my brother from Querétaro prepare this for the next time I met with you. It'll take care of those dreams, Bruce. But ask yourself: a bottle, or a movement?" Fisherman stood up, sighing again. "I don't have anything else to say on this matter, Bruce. I can't help you until you help yourself."

"You can't be giving up on me!" Bruce said urgently, standing to his feet. He towered over Fisherman, a brooding presence indeed. Fisherman could feel the power behind Bruce Wayne. It was also magnetic, electrical in its invisible distribution. "Fisherman, I can't do what you ask. You know I can't."

"Why, Bruce? Because of your name?"

"Yes."

"Because of your butler?"

Bruce clenched his fist. What did Alfred have to do with this? "Alfred would never support me going to the thugs of the Lows for help in any matter…"

"Because he would disapprove of the ethical properties or because you fear that in doing so, you'll get yourself in trouble with the law, and thus get Alfred in trouble as well? Because he's not in the best of health?"

Bruce frowned. 'What did you say?"

"His health, Bruce. Please do not insult my intelligence, or the intelligence of Gotham's finest noses and eyes. We've all seen him. Tabloids from just last month of his opening up the limo door for you. He's looking pale. He's moving slower than he's been known to move. Alfred is more well-known than you think, Bruce. What if he were to be killed? Do you honestly think that a part of the monster now brewing inside of Chase Meridian will not see you as a target?"

"A target?"

"For letting this happen to her, for not being able to stop the madman who burnt half of her life away. Let us face it, Bruce Wayne. You feel responsible for all of this. Do you honestly believe that she doesn't possibly feel the same way as you do?"

"She would never go after Alfred!" Bruce exclaimed, pointing a stubborn finger into the man's face. "Do you hear me!? Alfred will not be a target, and I will not go to the underworld for help! I want to know how to end these dreams! I can't do it anymore! If this bottle is your response, then damn it, I'll take your advice! Over and over again I'll take your advice! Is that what you want me to do!? Drink myself into a daze and not wake up from it!?"

"I believe you already have, without my brother's wine to help you…"

"I'm sorry for wasting both of our times, Terrance. Forget that this meeting and every other one before it happened." Bruce pushed his way past Fisherman, his expression beyond stone, beyond venom. Fisherman stood calmly where he was, not angry or shaken. Just calm. Absolutely frozen in a state of temporary ice. Then he smiled.

"Poor boy…" he whispered to himself. "I'm sorry that you're so stuck on an ethical but relentlessly untasteful solution." He looked doorward, where Bruce had vanished. He kept smiling. "It's going to be harder for you to find Contrast if you're not logical."

"All it takes is more pressure," said a female voice softly. From behind one of the closed tapestries covering one of Fisherman's windows came Dr. Chase Meridian, or Contrast, as Fisherman solely referred to her as now. She had been sitting comfortably in silence upon the windowsill for more than an hour now…watching Bruce…watching him intently…

"I believe he's going to need it," Fisherman admitted, sitting back down on the couch. His twinkling eyes studied her mutilated face calmly. He felt no fear of her. No fear of her features. He was as empty as the expression upon her face. Contrast walked slowly around the couch and took the seat that Bruce had vacated. "Which one of our contacts should we set him up with?" he pondered, stroking his medium-length white beard as he thought.

"When he comes calling, you will recommend Daddy."

Fisherman's brow furrowed. He frowned darkly, his blue eyes turned darker. "Daddy…?"

"Yes…Daddy… ha ha ha…Daddy…"

"Why him? Of all the monsters in this damn city, why the hell would you suggest Daddy?"

"Because I shot your secretary on my way up here," she whispered calmly, stroking the pistol she held in hand delicately, as if it were a child. "My boys will pay you the full reward of all her pieces if you recommend Daddy to him…"

Fisherman closed his eyes, silently mourning the loss of Eva. She had been young, she had beautiful and she had been a very talkative bitch, just as Fisherman preferred them. He had already put a mark on her head but it was not supposed to have gone through for another month. "She wasn't supposed to die yet…"

"I didn't ask…ask…the man who smelled the gunpowder, he ran and hid away…but the demons found him. The demons ate him. All the way up…"

"Contrast…"

"He went in from the legs up…"

"Chase!"

Contrast's head jerked wildly down, her dazed study of the ceiling broken by his sudden outburst.

"Chase?" she whispered.

"Yes, Chase… I can't help you if you kill my staff before I give you the w-"

She flew at him in a terrible rage, moving like a lioness on the hunt. Contrast flung herself across the table and her hands tightened around his fat neck. Fisherman fought against her, straining with gritted teeth against her powerful hold. "C-on-trush…!"

"WHAT'S MY NAME!?" she screamed at him.

"P-luise….!"

"MY NAME!?"

He was losing air. His body was one fire. He needed to be free, now!

"CU…TRUSS…!"

She released him, a content calmness sweeping over her now. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Good boy," she whispered, slowly spinning about the room, her arms wrapped around herself. "Good boy…good boy…ruff, ruff… ha ha ha…"

Fisherman began to cough violently. His throat was strained and he messaged it intently, falling onto the floor and gripping the table with one firm hand. _Why_?

"I-I j-just…not Daddy…!" he strained roughly.

"Daddy will be adequate," she whispered. "I promised him a billionaire. It _is_ his birthday next week, after all…"

"I don't want to do business with a child molester like that!" Fisherman spat. "Do you hear me!? I don't work with men like him! Do you know what he's done!?"

"Problems?" said a soft voice from behind. Fisherman spun on the spot. Two women were standing in the doorway, side by side. The dark one and the light one.

'Yvonne," Contrast whispered, "torture him." She walked away, to stand before the very window that Bruce had stood before, and gazed out towards the city, scratching the sides of her head with her long nails…making her head bleed… tasting it…

The dark woman began to move forward, a knife in hand. Fisherman threw out an arm. "Stay back!" he commanded her. "I won't have you touch me!"

"Sad little bird…" Vera cooed softly, her eyes wide and empty.

"Sad little prey…" Yvonne agreed, coming closer and closer, the knife glinting dangerously.

"Tweet, tweet!" Contrast exclaimed from the window, and then she burst into hysterical laughter. Fisherman tried to run past Yvonne but the dark woman caught him in the neck with a vicious punch. Down he went, breathing horribly again. She crawled onto his crumpled horn and stuck the knife down, its point resting on his chest.

"How so, Contrast?" Yvonne asked her boss softy.

"Carve his name," sang Contrast. She had found a small roach crawling on the windowsill, and was currently busy pulling its legs off one by one. It writhed in agony. "Bruce's name. Remind him of where his dedication lies."

And as Yvonne began to carve, Contrast walked slowly out of the room, walking past the man as he screamed in agony. She took Vera by the arm and led the bright one out. Arm in arm, they walked down the hall of St. Mack's Medicinal Mind, a curious expression upon Contrast's good half. "I wonder if Bruce will bite…"

"He will. He must. He shall…" Vera said softly, her eyes filled with tears. They always did that when she was alone with Contrast. Looking at that face… it reminded her so much of _him_… she needed him… Her and Yvonne both… Contrast had supplied Vera with a few beakers of NHO3, to go and create new forms of Harvey… but Vera hadn't let her victims live long. None of them had had what it took to replace Harvey, and she had dispatched them as quickly as she had mutilated their faces. Now Contrast knew not to give Vera anymore free beakers. The Pharisees had managed to take over the newly constructed Site 7 for Ace Chemicals, on the outskirts of northern Gotham…but supply was preciously limited.

"Do you miss him, Vera?"

"Miss him?"

"Harvey Dent… do you miss him?"

Vera stopped in her tracks, and Contrast with her. They could still hear Fisherman's frantic pleas for help… but there was no one else working this floor today. Not yet. They were all alone. Vera's eyes flickered in winces.

"Yes… I do."

"Poor little Vera…" Contrast sighed, shaking her head softly, her eyes closed.

"Sugar…"

Contrast grinned. "Yes. Sugar. That was what he called you, wasn't it? That was your old name…"

No… it _is_ my name!" Vera said frantically, pulling at her many golden curls.

"Is it, now? I'm not so sure. See, Harvey is dead…dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead…"

The Other then spoke. "He got offed!"

Really, Contrast could not determine when she was Contrast, and when she was the Other. But at least there was no room for Meridian.

"Harvey died and I watched him die," Contrast whispered urgently to Vera. "He died, he died, he fell, all the way down into the water… BOOM!" She clapped her hands hard in Vera's face, who cast her face downward, not wanting to look at the woman who had overtaken control of the Pharisees. "He _drownnnnned_…"

"Enough!" Vera plead, crying fully now. She was shaking madly. "Enough, please!"

Contrast pointed the gun downward and fired. Vera screamed, the bullet lodged in her left foot. She fell to the floor, whimpering uncontrollably. Contrast sighed, looking sad.

"Why? Why can't you see he's dead?"

"You-m-monster…"

"Why can't you see that I am all that is left of his legacy?" Contrast whispered more urgently. "You want to run Gotham into the ground, don't you? You have to let go of the past…"

The door down the hall opened. Yvonne was pulling something out of the room. Contrast knelt down and grabbed Vera's head forcibly, turning it to look Yvonne's way. "Or you end up _bleeeeeeeeeding_…"

Fisherman was beyond a mess. His left eye had been gouged out. It was bleeding something fierce. There was countless cuts all over his face. The name _BRUCE_ had been carved in large letters across his chest. He was not moving.

Contrast raised an eyebrow. Yvonne shook her head.

"He's alive," she assured her boss in an expressionless tone. "But he'll wish he weren't when he wakes up. He passed out… it was too much for him."

"Just leave him there," Contrast said, standing up. "Let's blow this joint girls. He knows what he has to do. And I got to see Bruce…" She stroked her breasts softly, thinking of Bruce and how close they had really been. "I want to see him again…"

"We could raid Wayne Manor…" Yvonne suggested. "Why go to all the trouble of having Fisherman set up a meeting with Daddy? We don't even know Bruce Wayne will bite."

"Oh, he will," Contrast assured her, yanking Vera up by the hair. She pushed the lightly dressed one hard against the wall. Vera dared not move. "He will because he'll soon loon that beefing up the defenses of his mansion will mean nothing. I don't need him to be inside to get to him…. I need it to be _outside._"

"Outside the manor grounds?"

"Much more than that. Fisherman tried to warn him… but the idiot wouldn't listen. His butler, Yvonne. Pennyworth. Pennyworth will ignite desperation."

"We take the old man, then?"

Contrast grinned, chuckling madly. "I wonder how much the old man will be able to take…"


End file.
